Taste for Trouble (30 page)
“Oh,
my lord.” Her cheeks flamed. “I didn’t mean to embarrass—”
“No!
Geez, Bel, no. You didn’t embarrass me. You touched me. I mean, keeping my
family together has been my life’s work since my parents died. It’s been all
our lives’ work, I guess. Will had a full ride to UCLA but he gave it up to
take on legal guardianship of me and Drew. I took early graduation after
landing a contract playing ball for a third-tier club outside London because it
was our best bet for staying together. I played my ass off, Will took whatever
work he could find and dedicated himself to managing me into the money.”
Bel
cleared the ache from her throat and asked, “How did you lose your folks?”
“Car
wreck. I was sixteen.”
“Which
made Will, what, eighteen?”
He
nodded. “Drew was twelve. I don’t know how he turned out so well. God knows
Will and I didn’t spend much time raising him. Honestly, sometimes I think he
raised us.” He shook his head. “None of us ever learned to cook—”
“Don’t
I know it,” Bel murmured and earned a quick half-smile.
“But
Drew handed us each a sack full of peanut butter sandwiches on our way out the
door every morning before taking his and walking to school. So I know it’s hard
for people to understand why we are the way we are, especially Will sometimes. But
we know what’s important. We know that family is precious, that love is rare,
that fate is unkind. We learned those lessons the hard way, and it taught us
how to protect what we love against anybody and anything that threatens it.”
He
pressed her hands between his and dipped his head to look her straight in the
eye. The warmth and regard she saw there had tears prickling hot and insistent
in her throat again.
“And
I can’t tell you,” he said, his voice low and warm, “what it means to me that
you understand who we are. Who I am.”
A
great surge of love rose up and clenched itself around Bel’s heart like a fist.
“I do,” she said softly. “I know who you are, James. And I—”
Love
you. I love you
.
The
words caught in her throat. Thank God. Because about the only thing worse than
giving an inappropriately intimate gift would be exposing a wildly
inappropriate emotion.
He
gazed at her, his brows drawn and concerned. “You what?”
She
squeezed his hands, and gave him her biggest, brightest smile. “I think we
ought to have a glass of champagne, because we’re about to knock this party out
of the park.”
Will
planted himself in front of the bar. He felt like a perfect fool in this get
up. He was one tri-corn hat away from being mistaken for Patrick Henry and if
that didn’t earn him a double shot of whiskey, straight up, he didn’t know what
would.
Well,
that wasn’t precisely true. Watching James charm the breeches and hoop skirts
off every idiot in the room was enough to drive anybody to drink.
He
glanced into his rapidly emptying glass and wondered how long he ought to force
himself to wait for a refill.
“Hey.”
Will
turned and found über-agent Bob at his elbow. “Hey, yourself.”
“Tonic
water, twist of lime,” Bob said to the bartender.
Will
snorted. “What, you give your balls to your girlfriend for the night?”
Bob
smiled placidly. “I stopped measuring my balls with a shot glass years ago. It
was liberating. You might look into it.”
“Yeah,
sure.” Will treated himself to a burning gulp of his whiskey and considered
Bob’s hollow cheeks and the tinge of grey underneath his skin. Some health
kick. “I’ll do that. Tomorrow.”
Bob
picked up his non-drink and took the stool next to Will’s. Damn it, why
couldn’t anybody just let him drink in peace these days?
“World
Cup qualifiers are wrapping up,” Bob said, his eyes following James’ stupid
golden head around the room. “Looks like the U. S. Team is going to make it.”
“Yep.”
“With
James back in action, they’re going to have a damn good shot at making the
quarter finals at least.”
“Yep.”
A bitter pit opened in his gut, the kind there wasn’t enough whiskey in the
world to fill.
“The
U. S. team hasn’t made it to the quarters since...when?”
“2002,”
Will said automatically. “And that was our best showing since a 3
rd
place finish in 1930.” He cut Bob a look. “Not exactly an impressive track
record.”
“A
track record your brother is looking at chewing up and spitting out.”
Will
gave him an elaborately careless shrug.
“Seriously,
Will. He’s in good shape. The best I’ve ever seen him in, and I’m talking
physical and mental. He’s fit.” Bob shot him a smug glance. “Bel’s been good
for him.”
“Whatever
you say.”
But
a great swell of resentment rose up, nearly choking him. God, where did it end?
Not only did James get all the family talent
and
first crack at all the
pussy but then he lucks into some kind of
magic
pussy that solves all
his problems? What kind of greedy fuck
was
he?
Bitterness
backed up in his throat but Will forced it down with a swallow of whiskey. Because
that was bullshit, and he knew it. James was a lot of things but he wasn’t
greedy. James believed without question or reservation that his success was
their success. His, Will’s and Drew’s. That his money was their money. The
house, the food, the cars, the clothes and the fans were all common property as
far as he was concerned.
The
only person tallying accounts and holding grudges was Will.
Disgust
was an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders, and he wished he could dredge up
even an ounce of the righteous resentment that had been fueling him these past
months. Because sitting here at the bar, stone-cold sober, looking down the barrel
of the truth was damned depressing. Without that protective layer of anger, he
was starting to get an awfully clear picture of himself, and it wasn’t pretty. He
was seeing a lot of poor judgment, a wide streak of spoiled and ungrateful, and
a hefty dose of self-pity.
Props
to Audrey, he thought bitterly, lifting his glass toward her shiny blonde head.
He seemed to be able to locate her in any room at any moment, much to his
disgust. She’d called it. He was an ass.
Which
seemed like all the reason a guy would need to have another drink.
Two
hours into the party, Bel wasn’t quite so thrilled with her corset anymore. She
was still pleasantly surprised every time she happened to look down her own
dress—
wow, where did
those
come from
?—but she wasn’t overly fond
of racing between the kitchen, the gardens and the ballroom on about one third
of her usual lung capacity.
James
was about to start the charity auction and Bel wanted the wait staff circulating
with fresh trays of champagne before he did. Alcohol went a long way toward
loosening purse strings.
Not
that she figured they’d need a whole lot of loosening. James had done that
mysterious thing again, the one where he just sort of
understood
his
target market without any apparent effort. She had no idea how he’d done it on
short notice, but he’d rounded up a stable of celebrities—athletes and
horsey-types from both the U. S. and overseas—and charmed them into donating to
charity an hour or two of whatever magical thing they did.
Small,
thrilled exclamations had been flying up like startled fireflies from the crowd
all night as these luminaries walked among the partygoers, talking up their
offerings. Bel scanned the ballroom with narrowed eyes, satisfaction a warm
glow in her chest as her servers wound through the growing buzz of anticipation
like an efficient little army.
Her
army.
Audrey
appeared at her elbow. “Lillian says we’re ready for the dessert buffet. We’ll
start laying it as soon as the auction starts.”
“Perfect.”
“Anything
else I can do?”
“I
don’t think so.” Bel turned to grin at her. “Things seem to be going pretty—Oh.
Oh, no.”
“What?”
Audrey’s purple eyes went wide and she followed Bel’s unhappy gaze over her
shoulder. “What?”
“At
the bar,” Bel said grimly. “Will.”
Audrey
looked. “What about him?”
“He’s
drinking.”
She
rolled her eyes. “He’s always drinking.”
“No,
sometimes he just has a drink or two.”
“Or
eight,” Audrey muttered. Bel ignored her.
“This
is Drinking, capital D,” she said. “This is drinking with serious intent.”
“Intent
to what?”
“To
get wasted. And then do something foolish and/or destructive, to himself or the
assembled company.”
“Oh.”
Audrey looked closer. “Right.”
“Bel?”
James waited at the base of the steps leading to the podium. He lifted his
eyebrows in question.
She
checked her watch. It was an anachronism, she knew, but she’d be damned if
she’d throw a party without her watch. She nodded at him, mustered up a bright,
reassuring smile. “Go for it.”
She
turned back to Audrey and lowered her voice. “Can you get him out of here? Will?”
“I
may not be, um, the best choice,” Audrey said.
“Why
not?”
“I’m
sort of afraid of him.”
“Everybody
is.” Bel watched as James took the stage and started charming a couple hundred
people all at once with every appearance of ease. Love filled her chest and she
looked away. “I think he likes it. Don’t give him the pleasure.”
“No,
it’s more than that.” She twisted her fingers together, worry wrinkling her
perfect face. “I don’t even know how to explain this.”
“Try.”
“Wow.
Um, okay. You know how it feels when you stand at the edge of a really tall cliff?
And how, even though you know you’d never jump, you have the insane impulse to do
it anyway? Just to see what it would feel like before you hit bottom?”
Bel shrugged.
“Sure. Everybody does.”
“It’s
like that with me and Will.”
“He
makes you want to jump off a cliff?” Bel asked, at sea.
“Not
that I ever would,” Audrey said quickly. “I’m not a suicidal fool. But it’s the
impulse coming up inside me like that, all strong and sharp and unexpected. It’s
uncomfortable. I don’t like it, and I don’t like him.”
Bel
frowned at her. “Are we still talking about cliffs here? Because it feels like
we’re not but I have no idea what we’ve moved on to.”
Audrey
closed her eyes and her shoulders slumped. “Never mind. I’m not explaining this
very well.”
“No,
you’re fine. I was totally following you right up until—” The dots connected abruptly
in her head and she grabbed Audrey’s pointy elbow. “Unless you’re saying that
you sort of want to...” She trailed off, disbelieving, as color raced into
Audrey’s milk-pale cheeks. “With
Will
?”
“No!”
Her eyes went wide and panicked. “No, see that’s what I’m trying to say. I
don’t
!
Really, really don’t. It’s just that sometimes, I sort of...” She lifted thin
shoulders in pained bafflement.
“Do.”
Bel shook her head. “Sometimes you sort of do.”
The
fight went out of the girl’s spine and she deflated right before Bel’s eyes.
“Yeah.
But only sometimes. When I’m feeling particularly, I don’t know, fragile.”
“That’s
a good word for it.”
And I ought to know
, she thought, not looking at
James. “Okay, you know what? Don’t worry about Will.” She checked her watch. “I’ve
got this.”
Audrey
gazed at her with pathetic gratitude. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
She thought about James weaving his magic spell from the stage and her heart
swelled. “Tonight is perfection, and I’m not going to let anybody smear the
frosting. Not even Will.”
“Right.”
Audrey frowned at the bar. “Good luck with that.”
Will
sprawled over one of the benches in the kitchen’s breakfast nook and missed his
whiskey like he’d miss his right arm.
“The
least you could have done was let me bring my drink,” he said to Bel, who paced
back and forth across the opening of the nook looking for all the world like
Martha Washington. If Martha Washington had been tall and tidy and quietly
enraged.
“What
on earth is
wrong
with you?” Her voice was low and tense. “Your brother
is
this close
to climbing out of the hole you helped him make of his
life, and you’re at the bar drinking yourself blind?”
“Yeah,
poor James.” Will ran a skeptical eye over the acres of gleaming kitchen at
Bel’s back. “Trapped in this wretched hole.”
She
said nothing, only gazed at him with such open dislike that shame seized his
belly like a cramp. He forced an elaborately false smile.
